


Responsibility

by resonae



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombies, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-13
Updated: 2013-09-13
Packaged: 2017-12-26 11:28:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/965416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/resonae/pseuds/resonae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the first cases broke out, Australia was the best place to be. But then the infection carried over, through a careless pilot who’d skipped scans, and Australia was the worst place to be. And Hercules Hansen had to get his 11-year-old son out of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Responsibility

When the first cases broke out, Australia was the best place to be. It was so separated from the rest of the world that some Australians didn’t even know there was a virus outbreak in the rest of the world until weeks after the first attacks happened.

 

But then the infection carried over, through a careless pilot who’d skipped scans, and Australia was the worst place to be. There were Shatterdomes, clean havens all over the continents, in Hong Kong, in Lima, in Anchorage, in Los Angeles, Tokyo, Panama City, Vladivostok, but the infection in Australia spread from Sydney and all throughout the country, leaving no city intact.

 

Hercules Hansen, _the_ best pilot in the Royal Australian Air Force, loses his wife to what they’re calling zombies. They’re driving in a Hummer, Angela’s clutching their son in their arms in the passenger’s seat as Herc rams the Hummer through the undead who’s trying to swarm all over the car. He doesn’t know how it happens. All he knows is one moment, the window on Angela’s side is broken.

 

Angela thrusts Chuck at him. He doesn’t think. He grabs their son, shoves the door open, and runs.

 

The undead are fast, but a father who’s got his son’s life in his hands runs faster.

 

\--

 

Chuck doesn’t forgive him. He screams and kicks when they finally get themselves into a bank with bulletproof windows. Herc holds Chuck against him as he scans the small bank, locks all steel doors, turns the light on in every single room.

Herc understands Chuck blames him, and Chuck says, “You should’ve saved mom.” He cries, trying to be angry and too scared and grieving to really pull it off. “You could’ve just had another _son_.”

 

Herc doesn’t know how to explain to Chuck that he’s not replaceable. That as much as it rips his heart to know that Angela is now one of the Undead, he can’t even imagine Chuck, his baby boy, as one of them. So he just folds his body around Chuck, holds him and strokes his hair until Chuck starts sobbing uncontrollably, crying for his mother.

 

Herc doesn’t sleep that night. He’s afraid of the zombies, sure, but he’s more afraid that he’ll wake up the next morning and find that Chuck has run away.

 

\--

 

The bank is more resourceful than Herc would have thought. He doesn’t let go of Chuck’s hand as he scours the bank entirely. He finds a map, a bunch of canned food, and, most importantly, a ton of weapons for the security staff. He stuffs a bag with as many guns and ammo as he can, slings it over his shoulder, and takes an automatic rifle, shoves more ammo into his pockets. He clips a handgun to his belt, and slides a knife in its leather sheath and straps that onto his pants, too.

 

He then hesitates, looking at his 11 year old son. “Hey.” He kneels, rubbing Chuck’s tear-dirty cheeks. He takes one of the smaller handguns, and Chuck stares at it. He flicks the safety off, and guides Chuck’s hands to the holster. It looks incredibly foreign in Chuck’s tiny hands, and Chuck stares at it.

 

He spends the next half hour teaching Chuck how to shoot. Chuck’s aim isn’t perfect, but he’s got his father’s blood, and he does a good job. “Only when you need to.” He says, flicking the safety back on and securing it to Chuck’s belt. “I’m gonna protect you, Chuck. But if I’m fighting, and one of them comes on you.” Chuck, instead of answering, clutches onto his shoulder and buries his face in Herc’s neck.

 

Herc rubs his hand on his son’s back. He doesn’t say, _and if I turn into one_ , and hopes he’s never going to have to.

 

\--

 

“We’re gonna go to Melbourne, Chuck.”

 

Chuck looks at him, his eyes wide. “Why?”

 

“Because we need a plane.” The government burned down the Sydney airport and all the planes there when the first outbreak had happened, in an attempt to stem it all, but now it was their poison. “We’re gonna get to Melbourne, get a plane, and fly to Hong Kong.”

 

Chuck nods, pressed tightly to his father’s side. Herc runs his fingers through his son’s hair, kisses the crown of his head. “I’m sorry I yelled at you, daddy.” Chuck sniffles. They’ve had zombies come bang at the windows, which sent Chuck scrambling to the back, but the bulletproof glass holds steady. Herc would almost like to stay here, but he knows he can’t.

 

Herc can’t help it. He smiles, and kisses his son’s forehead. “It’s okay. Listen, Chuck. We gotta stay silent, okay? And you’re gonna have to trust your old man.” Chuck nods, clutching his dad’s pants when Herc stands up. “We’re gonna drive for as long as the gas lasts, and we’re probably gonna have to walk the rest.” Herc’s siphoned all the gas in the cars in the bank’s garage. To be honest, it wasn’t much, and an armored car guzzles gas like it’s air. But Herc’s not going to risk driving in a sedan, when he remembers the undead slamming through the Hummer’s windows. He’s just thankful that the bank has armored vehicles (but of course it does, it’s a bank, and one of the reasons why Herc chose it as their temporary haven).

 

“You hungry?” Herc straps Chuck into the passenger’s seat, keeps the guns close between them, and lays the automatic rifle on his lap. “You want some food?” He opens up the can of tangerines and Chuck inhales half of it, then hands it to his father. “You eat it all, Chuck.”

 

“But you’re gonna be protecting us, daddy. You eat some, too.”

 

Herc grins, ruffles Chuck’s hair, and makes Chuck eat the rest of it anyway.

 

\--

 

Herc refills the gas anytime he can. He’s not going to risk running out of fuel in the middle of nowhere, and he siphons gas from any car that he comes across. They barrel through the undead that comes their way, making Chuck squirm and cry in his seat. In the end, they get about halfway when Herc runs out of gas. “Chuck.” He says, shaking Chuck awake, rubbing dirty tear marks away. “We gotta walk from here, kiddo.”

 

There’s a little bit of gas left, but not enough to take them anywhere, and Herc doesn’t want to risk having stopped in an open road. “Where are we?” Chuck asks, clutching onto his father’s pants as they climb out of the car.

 

It’s a deserted town. Herc moves quietly, his back to the walls, one hand clutching Chuck’s hand. Chuck is shaking, shaking so hard, and Herc kicks a barrel out into the streets, and it clatters up a racket.

 

Three zombies smash out of houses into the open at once, and two more follow. Chuck’s gone totally still next to him, and Herc says, “Stay close to daddy, Chuck. Hold onto me.” He eases his hand from Chuck’s grip, and feels Chuck shake as he tightens his grip onto the back of his jacket. Herc aims his rifle, and shoots five shots.

 

They all go down, but Chuck screams.

 

Herc swerves, his gun out, and finds a man holding his son by the scruff of his neck, a gun pointed to Chuck’s head. A man, not an undead. “What are you doing?” Herc hisses. Chuck sobs, tries to reach for his dad, but the man tightens his hold. “If you don’t give me my son back now, I’ll make sure you regret it.”

 

“Give me the guns. You can keep your AK and your handgun, but gimme the rest.” The man says, breathing harshly. Chuck cries. “And the food, or I’ll splatter the kid’s brains on the wall.”

 

Herc kicks his bag of guns over to the man. “My kid,” he says, his voice low. He doesn’t blame the man. It’s all survival, and he should’ve paid more attention, but if this fucker thinks he can get away with hurting his son, he’s got another one coming. “Give me my kid.”

 

“The food.”

 

“I gave you the guns. You give me my kid, and I’ll give you the food.”

 

The man hesitates, grabs the bag of guns and slings it over his shoulder with his free hand. He throws Chuck against the floor and points a gun at him. Chuck is so paralyzed with fear he can’t even cry out. “The food.”

 

Herc chucks the bag of canned food at him and grabs his son. The man doesn’t even look back as he runs. “Hey.” Herc bends down, rubs the dirt from Chuck’s face as Chuck shakes, shakes so hard he’s hyperventilating. “Breathe, Chuck. I got you, I got you. Everything’s going to be okay. Breathe in. Out. In, out. There’s a good kid.”

 

“I’m sorry, daddy.” Chuck says, when he finally finds his voice. “He took all our stuff – because of me – because-“

 

“Hey. Not your fault. My fault for not paying attention.” Herc thinks, _I won’t make that mistake again_. He’d thought their only enemies were the undead, who were attracted to noise and couldn’t think. But they also had their bigger enemies, other _people_ who still could think, some of which who didn’t care for others at all. Chuck sobs, shoulders shaking, and Herc holds him close, strokes the back of his head until he stops. “Chuck. The only thing I need is you, okay? You’re more important than anything.”

 

Herc makes more noise as he goes, purposely kicking anything he can over. No more zombies come out, but Herc flips on the lights everywhere he goes, collecting as much food as he can into a bag he found in one of the houses, and he leaves them all on.

 

He settles for the smallest house in the town, with no basement or attic or anything but a first floor, with one window. They eat, Herc, too, this time. Chuck falls asleep, uneasy but exhausted from adrenaline, and Herc spends the night poring over the map. He can’t walk along the highway, not with Chuck, with so low on supplies, so he’s going to have to go from town to town.

 

Chuck’s tucked up next to him, the fleece blanket tucked around him, his father’s leg as his pillow, but he gets nightmares, soaking Herc’s pant leg with cold sweat as he whimpers and twitches uneasily. “I’m gonna get us out safe, Angela,” he says out loud. “Both of us. Gonna take care of our baby boy.”

 

\--

 

They meet up with a group of other stragglers heading to Melbourne. “You know how to fly?” Herc asks them, accepting the beef jerky they had to him, and then breaking off most of it to Chuck. Chuck devours it like he’s had nothing else to eat for the past two days. They eye Chuck like he’s a zombie, but Herc shuffles in front of him.

 

“Yeah, I’m a pilot.” One of them tells him. They travel together for two days. Herc does most of the work, as the only soldier, but one of the other men is good with a gun. Chuck keeps up, and Herc’s so proud of him, biting his lip through climbing that gets him cut all over his palm. He doesn’t straggle, and the group doesn’t have to slow down for him, and doesn’t complain when he gets the smallest portions. One of the three women have lost her son, and she takes care of Chuck like she’s her own, and he appreciates it.

 

Everything goes well, really. They don’t make much ground, as they can only travel in daylight, and even then incredibly slowly in limited roads. Sometimes fight breaks out and Herc pushes Chuck to the woman, who stands in between Chuck and the zombies, holding a bat in her hands. Herc doesn’t let the zombies get to them.

 

Until a zombie _does_. It’s during the night during an ambush, during one of the night watches gone bad. They lose the woman, along with the pilot, and two other men, and come out of it bleeding and bruised, Chuck shaky and a mess in Herc’s arms.

 

Come morning, one of the men takes Herc aside. “You wanna keep traveling with us, you gotta leave your son behind.”

 

“What-“

 

“Listen, he’s a dead weight. Baggage, just an extra mouth to feed. He can’t even-“

 

Herc punches him. “Fuck you.” He says. “We’ll do good by ourselves.” He stalks over to Chuck, who’s heard the entire conversation. _Baggage_ , Herc thinks, furious, like Chuck’s something they can just throw away. He takes Chuck’s hand, fills his bag. The man that’s good with a gun – Will, his name is – packs him extra ammo.

 

“Best of luck, mate.” Will tells him. “You, too, kid. You’re a good kid.” He hands Chuck a handful of beef jerky, and Chuck shakes his head. “Take it. You’re gonna need it.” He tucks the little Ziploc back into Chuck’s pants pocket. “Listen, Herc. I’d go with you, but… Cynthia will want to stay with the group.”

 

Cynthia is Will’s wife. “I know.” Herc claps him on the shoulder. “Best of luck, mate. Maybe we’ll see each other in Melbourne.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

\--

 

They go their separate ways. Herc remains behind as the group moves forward, and Chuck is curled up into a tight ball beside him. “Daddy. Would you… be better off without me?” He says, his voice trembling.

 

Herc tucks Chuck next to him, tight against his side. “You’re my entire life.” He tells Chuck, squeezing his shoulders. “Don’t let anything get to you, all right, kid? Your old man’s going to get us to Melbourne. My old friend, Stacker Pentecost, is the Marshal of the Hong Kong Shatterdome. We’re gonna be good.”

 

“But-“

 

“No buts.” Herc says firmly. “We’re gonna get there together. You’re my son, Chuck. My _son_. Nothing is more important to me than you are.”

 

Chuck sniffles, clutches at his shirt, and falls into an uneasy sleep. It’s about three hours into the night when Herc hears it. A crash, followed by a low, unearthly growl. Chuck jerks awake, his eyes wide, and Herc grips his shoulder. “We’re going to be okay,” he whispers. “Trust your old man. You hear me? We’re gonna keep quiet.”

 

Chuck nods, but Herc can feel his pulse jackhammering under his hand. Chuck’s jaw clench to keep his teeth from chattering, and Herc silently checks his ammo (full). He knew he should’ve found a smaller house, not this big one with a basement, but their group had checked it before and he felt more comfortable with a certain house.

 

He keeps his back to the wall. “Watch my back for me, Chuck,” he whispers, quietly, and Chuck obeys quietly, pressing his back to Herc’s thighs. The attack, however, comes from the front. Herc shoots the first one, then the second, then the third, except now that the noise has attracted, he hears the snarls, coming closer and closer. He grabs Chuck’s hand, clammy with sweat, and runs.

 

He shoots down the two in the staircase, but Chuck falls down the stairs. “Shit.” Herc runs down after him, reaches Chuck, dazed with pain. Herc quickly scans the room, and then Chuck. “Hey. Hey, you okay?” Chuck is crying, too scared to make noise, but crying, reaching for his father, and suddenly Herc hears the rabid snarl.

 

Chuck screams, and the hands are on Herc’s throat. Herc can’t hear anything except the mantra in his head saying _I can’t die, because then Chuck would be next_. He grapples with the hissing, spitting undead, smelling foul, and keeps the snapping jaws away. He snatches his knife, stabs the zombie in the neck and shoves it away, but then another one is diving at him.

 

There’s a shot, a clear explosion in the air, and the zombie crumbles to the ground. Herc scrambles up, wondering if Will came back after all, but when he looks up, it’s _Chuck_ holding the gun. “Daddy.” Chuck says, when Herc stands up. “Daddy!” He drops the gun and comes running, and Herc snatches him up in a tight hug. Chuck is outright bawling, and Herc presses his back to the corner of the room, his eyes scanning the room for more intruders, his gun close, even as he rubs circles into his son’s back.

 

“So proud of you,” Herc tells him. “Great shot. Now, where’d you get those genes from, I wonder, hmm?” He smiles, tries to, at Chuck. Chuck laughs at him, watery, and then buries his face in his father’s shoulder. “You did good, baby. Saved my life.”

 

“I was so scared.” Chuck says, his trembles dying down gradually. “I thought – I thought-“

 

Herc strokes his hair. “I know what you thought. And you did so good.” They stay in silence after that, two zombies dead in the room, but Herc can’t even care.

 

When Herc’s cleaning up his weapons later, Chuck stands close to him, eyeing the zombies. “Daddy,” Chuck says, “That’s Will.”

 

Herc looks up, and sees Chuck pointing at the zombie on the ground. The face is unrecognizable, but Herc recognizes the clothes. “Jesus.” Herc says, stopping. Chuck is right. “There were seven of them, too.” As many as there had been in the group.

 

They don’t even have time to grieve, although Herc digs the ammo and the guns from William. Chuck is obviously shocked by what just happened. All the zombies before had been unknown faces, but now suddenly a group that they’d said farewell to just hours ago had shown up at their door, undead. “Daddy,” Chuck says, his lips blue, “that could happen to us.”

 

“No.” Herc says. Chuck looks at him, his baby blue eyes filled with fear, and Herc holds him close. “No, Chuck. It won’t.”

 

\--

 

Four days later, they find a dog. It’s a wrinkly bulldog puppy, and it puts a huge smile on Chuck’s face. Chuck doesn’t ask Herc, because Chuck’s mature enough to know a dog is another mouth to feed, means another tagalong. But it puts a huge smile on Chuck’s face, one that Herc hasn’t seen since Angela was turned.

 

So he scoops it up. “What should we name it, then?”

 

\--

 

Chuck names the dog Max.

 

Max, it turns out, isn’t just another mouth to feed. He smells and hears the undead way before Herc can even hear them, and is a smart little dog. He doesn’t run away or bark or make any noise when they’re hiding from the undead, and lets Chuck squeeze him when they’re passing by a group of undead, keeping silent on their feet. Chuck doesn’t get nightmares anymore when he’s sleeping curled up with Max, and Herc can even afford to catch a few hours of shut-eye because Max will alert them before anything can happen.

 

“This was a good idea,” Herc tells Chuck as he rips deer-jerky they’d hoarded from a convenience store to feed Max. “Good thinking, kid.”

 

“It wasn’t my idea, daddy,” Chuck says, grinning wide as Max drools all over him.

 

“Of course it was.” Herc replies, ruffling his son’s hair. They both need a shower, badly, and they haven’t eaten anything but dried jerky and canned fruits for almost two weeks, now.

 

But they’re making progress. Slow, but steady. Herc and Chuck also find out that their only enemies are really the undead, and some of the crazy people. Animals aren’t affected by the virus for some reason, and they’re not hostile to the father-son-dog trio. In fact, a pack of dingos once even helped Herc take down a group of undead, and crocodiles that would have tried to eat them slither alongside, almost friendly.

 

And most of all, Chuck is alive, he’s healthy, and he’s _smiling_ , and Herc thinks things are going to be all right.

 

\--

 

They have about two days’ worth of traveling to Melbourne when they meet Angela.

 

Or what used to be Angela. But Herc and Chuck recognize her right away. And Chuck stumbles toward her. “Chuck.” Herc grabs him, and Max whimpers. “Chuck, don’t. It’s not mommy anymore.”

 

But Chuck shakes him off and sprints off. “Mommy!”

 

“Jesus, CHUCK!” Herc runs after him, sliding to knock Chuck off his feet at the same exact moment the Angela-zombie dives for him. Herc kicks her – it – in the stomach, sending it flying to the side. But it dives for them again, and Herc scrambles.

 

He’s wrestled crocodiles before. He’s wrestled a zombies before.

 

But he’s never wrestled a zombie that used to be his wife, with his son in his arms. Max is barking around them, and then there are more, piling on top of them. It’s over, Herc thinks, I’ve failed both of them.

 

But then there’s a gun recoil to his gut, and Angela-zombie slides off. Chuck, covered in goo and mud, is holding a gun, safety flicked off.

 

A switch flicks on in Herc’s head. He flips Chuck over, shielding him with his body as he just fights through, kicking and screaming. He stabs his way through, and when he can finally get a grip on his rifle, he just lets out rounds.

 

He just keeps shooting, even when they’re all down, until he’s out of ammo. Max comes to them, whining, and they’re covered in guck and zombie-blood, Chuck is sobbing brokenly to his side. “I killed her.” Chuck is saying, trying to clutch at his side. “Daddy, I..”

 

“You didn’t. It wasn’t mommy anymore, Chuck. You didn’t kill anyone. None of them were alive.” Chuck is still crying, his face dirty with grime and his tears making clean tracks down his face. Herc gets up, shaky, picks Chuck up, and Max trots along them. There’s a convenience store in town, and Herc raids the shampoo, the soap, and all the bottles of water.

 

He sets aside a few, just in case, even though they have a lot of drinking water already, and opens the rest to wash Chuck and Max. Days of grime come off under patient fingers, even as Chuck sniffles. “There we go. I knew my son was somewhere down there under all that dirt,” Herc jokes, and Chuck smiles a little, still sniffling. “It wasn’t mommy, Chuck. You know that.”

 

Chuck nods, and Herc mourns that his son lost his childhood innocence, that purity, much too early. But still. “You wanna help daddy wash up, too?”

 

Chuck is alive. And that’s what matters.

 

\--

 

They make it to the Melbourne airport. Herc takes the closest plane they can get on that’s sealed up, but goes through the entire plane ten, twenty times before he’s sure nothing’s on it. “It’s a full tank, Chuck.” He says. “We’re gonna get to Hong Kong. We made it.”

 

He straps Chuck into the copilot’s seat, and tells Max, “No troublemaking during the flight, Max.” Max barks like he understands, and Chuck laughs, hugging Max to him.

 

“We made it, daddy.”

  
“I told you we would.”

 

\--

 

Herc flies over Papua New Guinea, then Indonesia, Malaysia, Vietnam, just to make sure he’s got his bearing right. He doesn’t want to fly into the sea. Even with the plane’s coordinate system working, he’s not going to risk anything. After hours and hours of flying, Chuck sleeping quietly and peacefully next to him in the copilot’s seat, he sees the Hong Kong Shatterdome.

 

He flicks the comms open. “This is Boeing 747, pilot Hercules Hansen of the Royal Australian Air Force, requesting permission to land.”

 

There’s static from the other side for a few seconds. Then, after two minutes that seem like eternity, the comms crackle to life. [Herc Hansen. I knew you’d make it out of there.] Herc laughs, because it’s Stacker Pentecost, the voice of his old friend. [Boeing 747, you’re cleared for landing. You’ll be instructed on decontamination once you land. But for now, you’re safe, soldier.]

 

Chuck stirs awake as he lands. “Are we here, daddy?”

 

And Herc laughs, relief and exhaustion of weeks catching up. He looks over, and his son is safe, his son is smiling, and he leans over to press their foreheads together as men in HAZMAT suits climb onboard to salute him. “Yeah, kid. We’re here.”


End file.
